Epilouge
by purrgatorys
Summary: Wirt dies and finds some old friends waiting for him in the afterlife.


_Epilouge_

* * *

Suddenly, there is _silence_.

What had once been a chaos of noise - the beeps from the machines, the chatter from family and friends come to wish him farewell, the distant cries and sobs and laughter of other staff and patients - is now eerily quiet.

All he sees is darkness and for a moment he's confused, unable to remember when he'd closed his eyes.

Wirt opens them slowly, one than the other - each feeling as heavy as lead as if some invisible weight had been forcing them down.

Even with his open, there's nothing. Just a blank, solid chalkboard black that seems to extend onwards and upwards into forever.

He reaches out his hands before him and is stunned to find that the persistent wrinkles and the shots of blue from his veins are gone.

He rubs his young fingers and is surprised to find the skin of his palms are soft again. The skin along his arms less pale, no longer translucent.

He feels no pain either. All pains old age including the seemingly constant stiffness of his joints is gone.

And he's both confused and amazed by the transformation.

Wirt blinks once then twice and the world seems to change, the darkness recedes slowly at first as small spots of dim light fill his vision. He can see the outlines now - silhouettes of old trees, their gnarled branches reaching up up up into a starless night sky.

"Where am I?" The question is followed quickly by a gasp, because the voice that speaks his question is not one he recognizes at first. It's young young, and the pitch not quite high but not as deep or as raspy as it had grown over the last few years … decades?

God how long had it been?

Time had seemed to pass so fast the last few years. Even before the hospital he's struggled to remember what day/what week/what year it was.

 _The hospital!_

But the white walls and the constant stench of antiseptic were nowhere to be seen or inhaled.

While he'd been taking in his transformation - focusing on the change of tenor and the new-found strength in what had been his aged body - the scene surrounding him had twisted and transformed as well.

He's in the woods now and it's oddly familiar. There's snow on the ground and he stands at a fork with a sign in the shape of a double-headed arrow.

He moves one foot forward and it crunches in the newly fallen snow, leaving a footprint. He presses a hand and runs the slush through his fingers and is struck by how cool it feels and how real .

In the distance, he hears a frog ribbit and the noise of a guitar being strummed but he sees nothing except the bare trees. The eerie quiet has faded and though there's no movement of physical appearance of life, he can hear the sounds of the forest rise in crescendo - crickets chirping, cicadas humming, invisible birds calling to one another.

The paths are identical and there's no writing or imagery on the sign save the outline of the arrowheads.

He chooses the left path at first and begins to walk. Only a few steps in and the air is colder, the tree branches seemingly sharper as it catches on his cloak (and where had that come from? He can't help but wonder, surely that hadn't been what the hospital had provided?)

He stops short, only a yard or so inward. In the middle of the path, in the dim moonlight he spots the broken lantern, a single stream of smoke billowing from the dead wick.

"What …" he trails off his voice a whisper as a sudden feeling of dread fills him. There's something wrong, but he's not sure what.

And then he feels it … something winding itself around his legs … his thighs … up and up and up , he jumps back and trips. He lands on his back in the cold slush and the thing is still moving and Wirt can feel more of things wrap around his wrists, pulling him down down down into the snow.

He knows this wrong though he's not exactly sure what to make of the situation.

"Hey," he whimpers, "Cut it out! Stop that!"

Tighter and the tighter the things seems to coil around him - tight and sharp like barbed wire though the texture remind hims of a rose's thorn.

And for a moment he thinks that it's, he dying (for the second time?) but then there's a voice and it calls his name.

"Wirt! Wirt!"

He knows this voice does he not? But from where, he can't remember.

The things are distracted by the noise and he takes advantage then and rips them away, quickly pulling himself up and retreating down the trail, all the way calling out, "Sara! Sara!"

She'd been at his bedside in the hospital, had she not? He could remember the feeling of her worn hands in his own. She'd been so warm and he'd be so scared to let go ...

But the voice that calls him, though familiar, is not hers. It's different, higher but also sterner, almost mockingly so.

"Greg?" But he's knows that's wrong before he even voices it. The voice is feminine and though his younger brother's tone had never gotten quite low it wasn't that high either.

Wirt turns the corner and comes again to the double headed sign.

He lifts his balled fists to his face and takes in what he had pulled away. They'd moved like snakes, coiling and winding up and around his body, but he knows realizes that the items had been vines covered with dead leaves and thorns.

The vines are lifeless now and lie still in his hands. With a sound of disgust he shakes the debris from his fingers and face the right path.

From the fork, both paths look the same - dimly lit and with dense winter trees on either side.

He can't help but feel afraid to step forward for what could this path hold? Something better or something _worse?_

"Wirt! Hurry up! Come on!"

He takes a step and then another, body tense and ready to run, but while the other path had grown dark with each step, this one seemed to grow lighter.

Without incident he reaches a thicket. From the other side he can hear a familiar ballad though he can't place it … something about molasses? The song is sweet and kind and childlike, despite his unease the noise is warm and welcoming.

With a deep breath, he squeezes his eyes shut and pushes through the thicket.

"What are you doing, you dork? Come over here!"

He opens and his eyes and blinks - the scene before him slowly coming into focus.

"You're such a slowpoke!" Beatrice chides. She's sitting at a long wooden table, surrounding by anthropomorphic animals, balloons, and confetti. The table is laid out with a feast that makes him salivate.

There's plates of mashed potatoes, a jug of molasses, cakes and cookies and pies. Some of the animals stand around the table holding instruments in their tiny hooves and paws, waiting for the call to play.

Wirt jumps as a small hand takes his own. He looks down and then there's Greg, smiling up at him clad in his overalls and his oversized kettle.

"Greg?" Wirt's throat clenches as he kneels and gathers the boy in his arms. "Greg!"

It'd been so long since he'd last seen his brother. The last time they'd been together had been years prior and Greg had been practically unresponsive then - the illness having overtaken his brain and body. It had always seemed wrong that Wirt should outlive his younger sibling.

"I've missed you!"

Greg's tiny hand pats Wirt on the back, "Oh come on, Wirt! Don't cry, it's a party!" He unravels himself from Wirt's grasp, grabs his hand again, and leads him toward the table where Beatrice waits, an unusually soft look on her face.

"Beatrice?" One of the animals pulls back the seat at the head for him and he sits. Greg moves to sit at the seat beside him, a small cushion already in place to help reach the table. "You're here too?"

The expression on her face changes as she cocks and eyebrow at him, "Of course. You missed me didn't you?"

He nods.

"Are you ready to eat?"

His stomach growls as if to answer.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Beatrice raises a hand and the animals bring the instruments to their mouths and the party begins. She laughs as Gregs reaches across the table and claims the potatoes.

"This party … what exactly are we celebrating?" Wirt can't help but ask, and Beatrice rolls her eyes.

"You, stupid."

"Me?"

"Yeah," Greg chimes in, "We've been waiting a _looooong_ time for you to get here."

"Here?" Wirt squeaks.

Beatrice shakes her head and sighs as if that's the dumbest question she'd ever heard. "Here," she says, and instead of answering his question she plops a large helping of mashed potatoes on his plate, "Eat up."

Wirt looks around at the those who surround him. Slowly, he begins to recognize the faces … the moving pumpkins, the young teacher, her father … the people of the Unknown.

"Come on Wirt! Try to the molasses!"

With an obedient nod, he shovel a spoonful into his mouth and as the music swells, he feels his body relax.


End file.
